Teen As Folk
by Veterization
Summary: Stiles/Derek oneshot, with a side of Stiles/Brian. Stiles goes back to the gay bar despite his better judgment, meets Brian Kinney, and learns that he is actually attractive to gay guys. Derek is not amused.


_A/N_: I do not own Teen Wolf.

* * *

In all honesty, Stiles doesn't know why he comes back to the gay club.

He's not gay—he spent all of chemistry admiring Lydia's cleavage and the contrast of her strawberry curls against her skin instead of preparing for Monday's test, and he's pretty sure that's an indicator if nothing else that he's straight as they come—but he still comes back, mostly under the pretense of scoping out the scene of the crime even though the police tape is long gone, forensics has more than enough pictures of the residual kanima venom to fill up multiple memory cards, and despite the scare the club is up to its neck in gyrating, sweaty bodies dancing along to catchy techno music once more. He supposes it might be because Scott takes two steps into the pounding music and fluorescent lights and he's already being bought a drink by a hunk down the bar while Stiles pushed his way through a myriad of partying bodies and bare chests to get to Danny without a single shirtless dude in leather snagging Stiles by the wrist and trying to hump his leg.

He doesn't tell Scott, just sneaks out of the house when his dad leaves for his night shift with his fake ID securely stored in his pocket and follows the trail back to the Jungle—and seriously, who named this joint?— waiting for the overwhelming smell of musky cologne and the sound of drunken laughter to lead him to the right door. The bouncer looks at his ID like he's waiting for Stiles' mother to come weaving from the crowd to grab him by the scruff of his neck and drag him home, but ultimately lets him inside just like last time. Stiles makes a mental note to perhaps invest in a more trustworthy fake ID if he's ever expecting to get past the cashier of a liquor store without being hauled to jail for underage purchasing of alcohol.

He's not even sure what he's waiting for—a sweaty man to hook his fingers into Stiles' pants and purr in his ear, a few wolf whistles from across the bar, or maybe just the satisfaction that yes, he _is_ attractive to gay guys, but he takes a seat at the bar nonetheless and ignores the suspicious looks from the bartender who intrinsically knows that he's either not gay enough or old enough to take two steps into the club, scanning the mass of bouncing bodies through the loud blare of the pumping techno music that thrums and vibrates through the floor.

Stiles tries sending a roguish wink at the bartender while he shakes up a drag queen's apple martini to no effect, then tries scanning the crowd for a friendly face like Danny to wave to from afar while he's got his arms hooked around a toned man's shoulders, but instead, his eyes land straight on a man in the middle of the dance floor.

Stiles knows at first glance that he's the sort of man that all responsible adults would warn him away from if the predatory stare in his eyes or smooth snaps of his hips to the music is anything to go by. His shirt's unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing an obscene sliver of skin, and even though his chest is grinding against another man's, hands possessive at his hips, his eyes still rove over his companion's shoulder as if hungrily looking for his next prey to grind against. A wet pink tongue peeks out from between his lips to flicker over his dance partner's earlobe. Through the haze of the flashing lights and the blur of alcohol Stiles hasn't even let buzz his system, something in his boxers stirs awake.

Then the man's eyes, roving past the giggling drag queens at the bar, land straight on Stiles. He smirks.

Stiles feels something like heat pool and prickle in his midsection, and that's all it takes before he's cursing under the pounding of the music and booking it toward the exit.

* * *

"Danny," Stiles mentions as nonchalantly as possible the next day at lunch while Scott is conveniently in the bathroom since this is a conversation he doesn't ever want his best friend to listen in on to save himself the sight of Scott's alarmed and bewildered expressions while he chats casually about gay bars. "Do you still go to the Jungle?"

He tries not to feel ridiculous while saying the words _the Jungle_ aloud, promptly stuffing his face with bits of fleshy chicken wings to busy his mouth.

"Not recently," Danny says, rather skeptically. "Have you?"

"Uh, yeah," Stiles says with a shrug that hopefully dismisses any suspicions Danny has about Stiles going to a bar mainly attended by men in either leather or heels. "Just looking... y'know, amateur police work and stuff. Thought I might find something weird there after the other night."

It doesn't sound persuasive to his own ears, but he hardly has the time to wonder if it was convincing enough to Danny's. Monday afternoon lunch while his hands are still slippery with chicken grease is not the time to ponder the flexibility of his orientation and have a homosexual epiphany.

"Amateur police—" Danny is saying, looking at him like he's staring at the subpar substitute for a long lost Hardy Boy, and Stiles quickly cuts off his train of thought.

"Anyway, I saw this guy there," Stiles barrels on, once again pushing an aura of forced flippancy into his words. Danny's staring at him like Stiles is so far in the closet he's found Narnia. Stiles concedes that this might be the case, as long as closet-cases are still allowed to daydream over the idea of victoriously kissing Lydia Martin after single-handedly winning a lacrosse championship and tasting her lip gloss. "Green eyes. Short brown hair. Not shirtless, definitely could never be a contestant on _RuPaul's Drag Race_. Eyes that could probably impregnate someone just by looking at them."

He says the last bit with purposeful, scary emphasis. The thought of those eyes, hungry for virgin flesh and ready to feast on awkward boys, still sends a theatrical shiver through him. He realizes after he considers his words that his description is definitely lacking and would leave even the sharpest sketch artists awaiting more information, but Danny's shoulders tense and his eyes flicker as if he instantaneously recognizes the man in question.

"That's, uh," Danny says, looking both slightly aroused and uncomfortable at the mental image of the mystery man. "That's Brian Kinney. He and his friends road trip over from Pittsburgh sometimes."

"Brian Kinney? So what, do you know the guy?"

Danny leans close to Stiles on the table, looking startlingly concerned for Stiles' safety, as if his personal well-being is in danger if he dabbles in the likes of Brian Kinney and his addictive green eyes. Stiles quickly scratches that last part from his brain.

"Stiles, just don't talk to the guy," Danny warns. "Trust me, you'll be happier if you don't."

Stiles is inclined to ask if the man has a garbled accent or is an alleged kleptomaniac, the sort of sketchy individual worth asking his father to check the out-of-state criminal records for, but Scott takes that moment to dump his tray next to Stiles' seat and moan about chemistry, officially ending all gossip regarding gay bars and the unknown dangers they behold.

* * *

Naturally, Stiles doesn't take Danny's advice and doesn't stay away from Brian Kinney. He considers the possibilities of his rebellion being that he's either too curious for his own good—he is the one who thought it would be a good idea to romp around in the woods while a bloodthirsty murder just finished tearing a body in half back before school started—or he may just be a stupid masochist keen on experiencing the worst a gay man from Pittsburgh has to offer.

He comes back Friday night after he's done with his algebra homework and wolfing down his leftover spaghetti, sliding into the smoky haze of the flashing lights that might give him epilepsy if he looks at them for too long with a smidgen more purpose than he had last time. He saunters to the bar, slaps his hand on the counter, and is about to flash his ID under the bartender's nose when said bartender stares him down like he's the school principal and firmly tells him that he won't be serving him any alcohol.

"Kid, you look like you were still wearing diapers twenty-four hours ago," he deadpans over the music, flatly pushing away Stiles' attempts to wave his phony ID as proof, which is starting to make Stiles think that he's going to have to fork over more than twenty bucks to create a convincing ID. "I can give you soda, and even put it in a shot glass so you feel good about yourself, eh?"

Stiles is about to ask exactly what brand of booze _soda_ might be a euphemism for when a warm hand curls around his hip, slender fingers hitching up the fabric of his shirt to brush against the bare, ticklish patch of skin at his stomach. He jumps and looks left to where the roaming hand is attached to a body sporting a familiar marauding smirk.

"I can vouch for my pal here," a mouth says smoothly, but Stiles is too busy focusing on the way his lips move and how tantalizing those flecks of green are in an eye to address the hand gripping his hip or concentrate on exactly who is so boldly vouching for a minor. "Why don't you get us both shots of tequila."

There is no question mark in his request, his words forming nothing but a slick demand. The bartender slithers obediently away.

"I have to say, I don't think I've ever seen anybody wear a hoodie to a gay bar," the man says, looking rather smug at having successfully caught Stiles in his grasp. Stiles feels effectively trapped, much like a small woodland animal or a rat or a possum might in the neck of the woods protected by bear traps might. He swallows. "I'm Brian—"

"—Kinney," Stiles finishes for him, if only to assert his intelligence after having successfully proven that he's already lacking in the age department. The idea of deflowering a high school kid whose priorities revolve around passing science class, making out with an eligibly attractive girl before graduation, and in Stiles' case, _werewolves_, doesn't seem to frighten Brian Kinney. Stiles wonders momentarily if there's a hidden camera under the bar and if any moment, the _To Catch a Predator_ cameramen will come filing out from underneath counters and bathroom stalls trying to catch bits of Stiles' comments.

"So you've heard of me?" Brian says, raising one eyebrow. Stiles doesn't even think his face has the muscles to do that, and if it can, definitely not nearly as elegantly.

"Not heard of, exactly, no. My friend Danny told me to, well, heh, stay away from you," Stiles admits, meekly wondering when he was pressed against the bar, small of his back digging into the countertop. Behind him, the bartender slings his towel over his shoulder and slides two shots of tequila across the bar. Brian picks one up.

"Did he?" Brian mumbles around the rim of his shot glass, and when he pulls it away he doesn't look remotely nauseated or even fazed by the impact of what Stiles can only assume is practically ninety percent hard liquor, the type of liquor that has the ability to turn Stiles' brain into an unusable marshland in seconds. Brian picks up the second glass and lifts it to Stiles' lips.

He's done his far share of drinking, usually with Scott in the back of his Jeep or out in the woods like they did back when Scott was still mourning his break up with Allison, normally always resulting in aftermaths that leave Stiles either mysteriously bruised in the morning after stumbling into every solid object near him or building a nest in the bathroom so he can hang his head in the toilet bowl all afternoon long. He catches a whiff of strong alcohol and decides that he might as well down the sucker, waving goodbye to a generous chunk of his brain cells and obediently parting his lips while Brian tips the glass back and a few drops trickle down his chin.

It burns like someone's lit a handful of matches right in his throat and then proceeded to pour a cruel mixture of acid and gasoline down afterward to attempt to poorly soothe the burn. He promptly proceeds to attractively hack up a lung—possibly both lungs—and realizes over the sound of his own croaky wheezing that Brian Kinney is actually chuckling at his eloquent reaction to downing a shot of tequila.

"Holy batman, is there even any skin left on my throat?" Stiles rasps, massaging his jugular, and Brian smirks, grazing his thumb over Stiles' chin where two abandoned drops of the drink sit, threatening to fall off his jaw. He catches them on his finger and deposits his thumb on his tongue, sucking off the excess before grabbing Stiles firmly by the hips and leading him into the throng of sweaty bodies.

"I can always stick my tongue down there and check," Brian says, or at least that's what Stiles _thinks_ he said, because he's almost positive that his ear is malfunctioning if the message it just sent to his brain is that the gyrating Sex Lord in front of him is propositioning his tongue for a heated make out.

Suddenly there's bodies bumping against him from behind and all sides, the entire dance floor teeming with an abundant lack of personal space and aggressively dancing men—some who Stiles knows could charge for the show they're putting on for the rest of the club—and deft hands pulling down the zipper of his hoodie and roaming up his shirt to tweak his nipples, and Stiles thinks that if not lunch, _now_ might be the right time for that existential crisis while he loops his arms around Brian's neck and clings on for dear life.

His dick comes to life in his shorts like someone triggered a wake-up alarm that was bound to go off sooner or later in his pants, firm hips brushing against Brian's in time to the obnoxiously loud music while glittering green and blue and orange lights dance over the nape of Brian's neck, already delicately decorated with small beads of sweat trickling from the hem of his hair. Stiles feels the alcohol start to settle in his stomach, letting the startling sensation of either throwing up in the next five minutes or being unable to know exactly which direction is up and down coil up his spine like the spikes of a cactus, and that's when the gravelly laughter of being deliciously tipsy rolls from Stiles' throat. Brian purrs like an engine in his ear at the sound and licks over the pulse point on his neck.

"So I should be calling Chris Hansen now or later?" Stiles says, hands curling into loose fists around the soft fabric of Brian's shirt, exposing his neck to Brian's evil tongue to be thoroughly debauched with licks and hickeys. The tequila burns pleasantly through his muscles until they tingle, making all of his decisions seem like excellently good ideas.

Brian chuckles like he's not even slightly frightened of the police or exactly how illegal the tongue licking a salty stripe up Stiles' neck to his jaw is, and for a moment, Stiles wonders if this man is scared of anything, or worse, if Stiles should rightfully be scared of _him_. The alcohol bubbles with audacity in his stomach, and he's about to say something like _I spend my nights fighting with werewolves_ if only to prove that he really is all man and not even a little bit _boy_, and that he is completely apt to keep up with Brian's pace.

A moment later, the song changes into something even faster and the bodies continue bumping and breathing close to Stiles. Brian hooks him even closer to his body and lets his tongue slide wetly against Stiles' lips in a spontaneous, filthy kiss while Stiles lets loose something akin to a whimper intermingled with the muffled birthing cry of a cow and tries to keep up. He gets the feeling that there are people out there who would not be happy with what he's doing right now, people like his father or Scott or Derek, and he doesn't know why his brain feels the need to bring up Derek because there are so many other things he should be busy focusing on, like Brian Kinney's _mouth_.

_To think I was scared of werewolves,_ Stiles thinks dazedly while Brian grabs his ass through his jeans and the tequila officially turns this night _awesome_.

* * *

Stiles is with Scott the next day to commence a _Call of Duty_ marathon on Stiles' Xbox after he spends the good part of the morning sleeping past breakfast, gracefully vomiting tequila and stomach acid into the sink, and feeling pretty damn good about his sex appeal. They're tossing a crumpled bag of Doritos back and forth while Stiles tries his hardest to keep his all-day smile at bay so Scott doesn't start asking if he's taken too much Adderall on accident and doing a poor job nonetheless. He scratches at his collarbone where his father's itchy turtleneck rubs against his chest and wonders if perhaps a douchebag scarf would be easier than inadvertently acquiring a rash all down his torso at the expense of covering his bite marks with a prickly sweater. Idly, he brushes his thumb against a sore, purpling mark on his neck and muses if perhaps he could spare himself from all of the unnecessary fashion accessories and believably pawn his marked body off as a mosquito buffet.

He supposes that he really should be freaking out. He spent last night making out with a man—a man probably in his twenties, Stiles still doesn't know if he should be proud or feel slightly cradle-snatched when he dwells too hard on exactly how old the elusive Brian Kinney is—whose dick kept brushing Stiles' thigh while two feet away, drag queens in leopard print heels catcalled at them, and on a normal day in the confusing cavern of Stiles' mind, this would be ample reason to sit in his shower and hyperventilate. Brian Kinney, no matter how sexually talented his hands and tongue might be, is not Lydia Martin, nor is he even a woman.

Stiles knows, more surely than he knows that the world is round and orbits the sun and that he might never stop warming the lacrosse bench in his entire high school career, that he likes women. Loves women. Loves their pretty eyelashes, their perky boobs, their soft voices and small stomachs. He loves how they walk with poise, how they take delicate care of their fingernails, and how easy they are to stare at and daydream about when he's bored in school. But he supposes that with recent events, it would be rather ignorant of him to turn a blind eye to the developments in his orientation. Stiles considers the label _bisexual_ for himself and thinks he could live with the stigma of being indecisive and greedy, since after all, he clearly does find some men attractive enough to share saliva with them. He looks at Scott, half a Dorito stuck between his teeth while he wrestles with his controller, and decides that no, definitely not attracted to his best friend, and he doesn't even want to think about touching Jackson if it doesn't involve tackling him on the lacrosse field and possibly dislocating one of his limbs, but then again, someone like Derek—

"Dude," Scott says through a mouthful of chips, wrinkling his nose. "You smell _weird_."

"That's nice, Scotty," Stiles says mildly, and proceeds to let his character kick ass on the television. "You don't exactly smell like a bed of roses either, but remind me to point it out next time I notice."

"No, you just—" Scott looks critically at his friend and takes a hearty sniff. "You smell like _sex_."

Stiles flushes, an erubescent blush crawling up to the tips of his ears to settle uncomfortably there for the world to see. He does what he does best when confronted in awkward situations, and begins sputtering verbal spew.

"_What?_ I haven't been—I wasn't, I mean, I won't be—I mean, there has been no sex in my life unless you're talking to this guy," Stiles drops his controller and gesticulates to his right hand. Scott makes a face.

"Dude! Too much information!" Scott says, staring down Stiles' right hand like he's staring directly at an undesirable fungus. Stiles resists the urge to smack him with it. "Why do you smell like sex?"

Stiles knows he hasn't been having sex—no matter how much the shots turned his brain into a pool of saturated alcohol, his memory hasn't been tampered with enough for him to remember taking off his pants—but he can imagine how much he smells like sex. Hormones and adolescent arousal that probably will never fade from his midriff again, not to mention the lingering scent of a hunk of a man rubbed all over his limbs, is probably all over him.

"I went to a gay bar and almost hooked up with a hot guy in his twenties," Stiles deadpans, popping several Doritos into his mouth. Scott looks at him, half a smile on his face, and then promptly dissolves into peals of laughter as he snatches the bag of chips away.

"Sure, Stiles," Scott dismisses with an airy wave of his hand, and that is the end of that, leaving Stiles both alarmed and thankful at just how slow his best friend is.

* * *

Scott leaves with the rest of the Doritos and half of Stiles' snack pantry in his mouth before his father comes home, and it's not until Stiles is showering and scrubbing his shampoo into a lather while he hums along to the original Batman theme song and hears his father shout his hello up the stairs when he looks down and realizes that his morning's bruises have turned into even deeper shades of mottled blue. The only plausible excuse he'll have if his father sees him in a towel in the next month is that he went to the zoo with Scott and got veritably mauled by a tiger.

He wonders if perhaps he's in over his head with the hurricane that is Brian Kinney, and if perhaps he should heed Danny's warning of sticking to cute, sweet girls—redheaded ones if he's lucky—so he heads to the Jungle later that day to tell the man that he's going to have to bow out gracefully.

Stiles meets Brian Kinney while he's smoking a cigarette out the back, propped up against a dumpster next to where a puddle of another inebriated man's sick lays gurgling and still managing to be unspeakably attractive, and begins to plead his case.

Next thing he knows, he's making out with Brian against said dumpster while trying valiantly to sidestep the pool of upchuck, moaning around a talented tongue and whimpering when a firm hand palms him through his jeans. He grabs his wrist and forever, inane, unknown reason, he stills him. His dick growls at him but Stiles doesn't let go of Brian's wrist until he stops squeezing him through his pants, almost like it's the _wrong hand_ and Stiles instinctively knows so. He pushes that thought aside and decides that maybe he's more of a blushing virgin that he initially thought he was.

"I'm not—I mean, I don't think—" Stiles stutters, licking his lips. He's probably licking off Brian's saliva. Oddly enough, the thought doesn't squelch him as much as he thought.

"Don't worry about it, kid," Brian says, pulling his hand away from Stiles' pants and into his back pocket, where he pulls out a pack of cigarettes, lights one behind his cupped hand, and blows out a puff of smoky tendrils by Stiles' left ear. "Want a drag?"

Stiles eyes the cancer stick and instantly hears Mrs. McCall's standard lectures to her son about the repercussions of smoking echo in his head. He shakes his head.

"Thought so," Brian says, chuckles under his breath like he's amused at Stiles' innocence, and throws him a quick wink that Stiles almost misses. He grabs Stiles by the back of the neck and draws him into another kiss, this one tasting of ashtray and beer. Stiles fists his shirt and lets Brian effectively ravish his mouth.

It's not the worst day in the world.

* * *

Stiles is in desperate need of a greasy snack and a nap on his bed before he digs out the homework when he's heading to his Jeep after school when he runs into Derek, the man standing sentinel by the passenger door when Stiles finds him. Stiles jumps at the sight of a hefty, brooding man pressed up against his car and tries not to appears too startled—apparently running around with werewolves and kanimas at his side for a few months still hasn't gotten rid of his instinctual impulse to scream like a girl when he's confronted with shady men and possible danger.

"_Derek_," Stiles says, and fumbles for his keys. "Did you need something other than hanging around a high school a borderline creepy amount and scaring the crap out of me?"

"Where have you been going these past few days?" Derek demands sharply.

"Uh, none of your beeswax," Stiles answers promptly, and that is just plain _creepy_ that Derek somehow knows that he hasn't been spending his night at home in his jammies watching _Cops_ reruns.

"You—just. Just tell Scott I'm looking for him," Derek says, which is odd, Stiles thinks, because he can see Scott across the parking lot fumbling with the chain on his bike, and he definitely sounds like the type of person who just got caught asking questions they shouldn't be and attempted to change the subject. Derek knits his eyebrows together rather crossly. "You smell like—"

"Sex, I know," Stiles finishes for him, sighing. He supposes that he shouldn't be surprised that his secrets aren't kept safe for very long when he's got werewolf friends with supernatural senses of smell always accompanying them. "You know, you should really consider detective work with that super sniffer of yours. You could totally outdo the police dogs who search for drugs. You and your entire pack could recreate the Scooby Doo gang, really, I bet Scott would even be on board—"

"No," Derek says abruptly, and Stiles gapes indignantly as all dreams of building a Mystery Machine dwindle without even a full chance to explain just how awesome it actually would be. "You smell like—someone else."

Stiles raises his eyebrows. "Someone—someone _else_?" As in _else_ as in if there was someone _before_.

"Someone new," Derek corrects himself, too quickly. He looks extremely tense, halfway between desperately needing a Swedish tissue massage and a yoga lesson and halfway ready to murder and chow down on the next harmless suburban rabbit to come prancing out of the bushes.

"Uh," Stiles says, not sure if Derek is pulling a concerned soccer mom routine and now wants details. "Yeah. I met a dude. Made a new friend. Just like kindergarten tells you to."

"He's not a friend," Derek corrects, sounding skeptical just like Scott, just like Danny, except that with Derek there's an undertone of _murder_—

"Okaaaay," Stiles says, bouncing back and forth on his feet. "This just got a little weird. Am I finally talking to one of those conservative nutjobs I never thought I'd meet? Here, in California?"

"Good for you," Derek grits out in the middle of Stiles' rambling, except he doesn't look mildly congratulatory or proud about Stiles bursting out of his cocoon of puberty and dabbling in sexual escapades. He rather looks he's eaten too much wasabi and became constipated—do werewolves even ever _get_ constipated or does that fall under the blessing of instantaneous healing?

"So do werewolves ever get constipa—" Stiles begins, absently scratching at his buzzcut, but by the time he looks at Derek for answers to his queries regarding lycanthropic bowel movements, he's already gone, nothing but footprints in the mud in his wake.

_Very weird,_ Stiles thinks while he watches Derek stalk across the school parking lot. _Or rather, weirder_.

* * *

Brian introduces Stiles to his friends the next time he shows up at the bar. The bouncer knows his face this time and even the bartender doesn't hesitate before sliding him a martini—Stiles is only slightly indignant at the fact that the bartender didn't consider that he might want to request a manlier drink that doesn't require a frilly decorative umbrella to be considered ready to serve—and Stiles sends them all impish winks in response. He wonders if superb service this is the benefit of knowing Brian Kinney, who easily owns any room he walks into with his artfully scruffy hair and full lips and smirk of fortitude.

He's friends with a loquacious, flamboyant group who all coo over young Stiles, who shows up in his favorite hoodie again and tries not to get awkward over the fact that Brian's friend Emmett is wearing a skintight shirt of what seems to be sheer lace paired with equally tight leather pants that hug his crotch like a second skin.

They tell him all about their gay bar back home in Pittsburgh and about how Brian was probably born out of the womb sucking dick, about how Stiles' neck looks like he was mauled by a tiger instead of played with by Brian. Stiles in turn tells them about how he plays lacrosse and about how his father is the sheriff, about his dorky best friend Scott and how he's not normally the type of boy who runs around in gay clubs, causing him to describe Lydia in full detail, and he even gives Brian's friend Michael Danny's number for giggles. He talks about how he's foolishly brave and is mildly surprised he hasn't lost a limb yet, about how he and Scott always go on adventures even though Scott always has to be Batman and Stiles always has to settle for Robin.

"You know that Batman and Robin are completely gay, right?" Brian drawls, his hand sliding up and down Stiles' torso under his shirt and making Stiles feel pleasantly woozy.

"Yeah, well, _maybe_," Stiles concedes, and Brian laughs, throaty and deep like he's had too many shots of vodka run through his throat, and kisses him roughly.

He starts talking about Derek too and is about to start mentioning exactly how wild this world is because, hey, _werewolves_, and how his life is like jumping into a mythology textbook on Halloween night every day, but then he remembers that as friendly as these guys are, they probably wouldn't believe him if he started spouting about werewolves and possibly more if that nine-hundred page bestiary is full of more than just lycanthropic lore and kanimas, and decides to leave most about Derek out of his life story.

He notices later every time he has to stop himself from talking about the time when Derek saved him from Nurse Ratchett and Alpha Peter or when he held Derek up for three hours in an eight-foot deep pool because the guy was paralyzed by a supernatural creature from the neck down, or even just _Derek_ and just how bizarre he is, that it feels like he's leaving an enormous part of his life out of his stories.

* * *

When the autobiographies and tales of Pittsburgh idiosyncrasies simmer down and give way for dancing—even though Stiles likes to more accurately label it as indecent sex in public with just enough clothing to keep anybody from getting arrested—Stiles spends the next hour making out with Brian against a bathroom stall while his boner steadily grows a life of its own even though he still, _stupidly_, swats Brian's impatient hands away from his pants. He kisses until his tongue feel likes an unnatural, dead eel sitting in his mouth and his lips feel swollen like bees have stung them and shimmies away when he realizes that he should probably head home to finish his abandoned chemistry homework before Mr. Harris gives him detention until the end of his high school career. His boner protests, and he's pretty sure that if his dick had opposable thumbs and access to weapons, he'd be at the mercy of his own libido right now, but a tiny virgin voice inside his head—possibly Scott's, because Scott would never be able to look at Stiles again if he officially became a deflowered man first—steadfastly tells him to refuse to let Brian's hands in his pants.

He's busy pondering if his heart is idiotically waiting out for Lydia or some other nameless, faceless soulmate in his life so he can tell his dad he didn't lose his v-card in the back of a gay club but with the elusive _The One_ everybody dreamily speaks of at the comedic champagne toast at his wedding when he leaves the hazy atmosphere of the club and runs smack dab into a brick wall.

Stiles is cursing and rubbing his forehead when he realizes that the wall that just cruelly sucker punched him in the face is not a wall at all, but rather a well-defined chest that's attached to a neck which is attached to a stubbly jaw which is attached to a scarily familiar face.

"Derek?" Stiles asks, and reaches out incredulously to touch his chest. It's firm under his hand, just like a wall, and Stiles thinks it might be time to lay off on the one thousand daily crunches.

"You've been drinking," Derek sounds stern and uncharacteristically fatherly. Stiles licks his elbow, waits for it to dry, and sniffs. The lingering scent of cheap bear and Brian Kinney's tongue wafts up his nostrils.

"I'm totally sober," Stiles says confidently, and stands more straightly to prove it. Derek doesn't look convinced.

"What were you doing here?" Derek cocks his head at the club door, where the sound of obnoxiously loud club music is still pounding against the walls. The sidewalk under Stiles' feet thrumbs with the vibration of the heavy bass. It feels like Jay-Z under his shoes.

"Uhhh," Stiles says eloquently, and spits out his rehearsed excuse. "Just looking for clues. About the kanima. Scene of the crime and all, you know."

Derek frowns hard and then stares shamelessly at his lips. Stiles wonders if they're still wet and shining from when Brian nibbled into his lower lip and proceeded to suck it into his mouth. "You're lying, and I don't need to hear your heartbeat to know that."

He looks like he's stomping down very hard on the urge to ask the question _who have you been kissing_, like he's actually worried or trying to tap into his paternal side—perhaps training a pack of three high school sophomores has awoken the dormant family man in him, even if Stiles seriously doubts it—and Stiles pokes him in between his eyebrows where wrinkles gather when he furrows them together.

"Try to look a little less like you're going to ground me and take away my car keys if I tell you what I've been up to," Stiles says, and Derek's face finally relaxes as if being called out on actually _caring_ is enough for him to return to his default gruff demeanor.

"If you're really looking for clues," Derek says slowly, like he's waiting for Stiles to correct him because he instinctively knows he's bluffing his way out of his homosexual adventures. "Then tell me what you find out."

"A whole lot of squat so far, boss," Stiles replies dutifully, even though really, he doesn't even remember which specific part of the bar the kanima was creeping over from the rafters when it started paralyzing the dancers, not to mention that he wouldn't be able to command the crowd to part long enough for him to examine the floor where the men fell.

"Hmm," Derek murmurs, and then starts looking Stiles up and down. Stiles nonchalantly zips up his jacket and peeks downward to make sure he doesn't look quite as sexually debauched as he feels. "I should walk you home."

"What? Uh, no. That's okay."

"It's late, and you should know better than anybody that it's dangerous," Derek says, sounding once again a strict father, and Stiles feels compelled to nod and let the man usher him home if it pleases him so much to be aware of Stiles' safety.

"Okay. But this is weird," Stiles feels the need to announce, sticking his hands in his pockets and falling into a steady, quiet step with Derek under the lampposts.

* * *

For the sake of tomorrow's chemistry test and partly because Stiles doesn't want to start telling random drag queens in wigs about how sad it truly is that his left hand has never touched his left elbow and that he's never really seen the back of his thighs before like the last time Brian paid for everyone's round of vodka shots, Stiles sticks to the designated driver label tonight and spends his night bobbing along to the techno from the sidelines of the throng of uncoordinated dancers.

"I thought I told you to stay away from him," a voice says over the music from Stiles' left, and he turns to face Danny, wearing a v-neck that possibly couldn't go any deeper down his chest if it tried, and Stiles groans at the disapproving smirk on his face.

"Oh my god. Is everyone going to start acting like my father?" Stiles moans to the ceiling, and Danny knows better than to ask who's been lecturing and advising Stiles in the past few days, probably because he fully believes that he needs all the paternal wisdom he can find in order to graduate high school without tripping over his own shoelaces.

"Seriously. What happened with you and Brian Kinney?"

Stiles shrugs, a list of _things that happened with Brian Kinney_ popping helpfully into his mind, _lots of making out until my lips start chafing_ ending up on number one. He shrugs again.

"Okay," Danny says knowingly. "So I guess you're not a virgin anymore."

Stiles sputters. "Are you speaking from _experience_?" He demands. "Did Brian Kinney eat your ass cherry?"

Danny shrugs, just as enigmatically as Stiles did if not more so. Stiles hurries to dispel any and all rumors regarding Brian Kinney and his what he may or may not have been doing in his pants.

"No. Just _no_. No sex," Stiles assures him. "We're like choir boys. In the middle of church."

"Brian Kinney doesn't not have sex," Danny says. "He sleeps with everybody. That's why I told you to be careful."

"So did you sleep with him?" Stiles persists, and Danny hops from the stool and sashays toward the dance floor before he answers.

Danny gets up and disappears into the crowd after a bouncy blond who was wiggling his hips at him in invitation, and after a second of vacancy on the chair next to Stiles, Derek Hale dumps himself into it.

Stiles jumps when he sees him, even though by now he should feel used to Derek's random appearances, no matter how creepy it may seem since it might be that Derek doesn't know how to do anything outside of _creepy_. There's a lewd wolf whistle from two feet away aimed directly at Derek, who doesn't even tilt his head to see who was valiantly attempting to secure his attention, and this is when Stiles realizes that this is exactly the sort of place that won't quickly overlook Derek's bulging muscles and defined cheekbones. He's pretty sure that if his shirt was sleeveless, there would be boys soliciting Derek for lap dances and blow jobs in the bathroom.

"So are you going to buy me a drink and try to woo me, or should I just peg you as a bad date now?" Stiles teases, bumping his shoulder into Derek's stiff one. Derek is hardly amused by Stiles' humor.

"Still think the kanima's going to come back here?" Derek mutters, and his voice is low and firm, just like always, and Stiles is surprised that he can hear it so clearly over the thrum of the music hurting his eardrums.

"Uhhhh," Stiles says, remembering his meek attempt of explaining that an alleged straight kid in love with a redheaded whackjob is coming routinely to a gay bar for purely productive detective purposes. "Probably not."

From across the club, Stiles catches Brian's eye from where he's dancing up against a short blond kid mouthing up his jaw. He gives Stiles a swift, smooth wink and Stiles is about to send him a cheeky thumbs up when the sound of a low rumble, like an earthquake coming to life, distracts him.

Turns out, it's not an earthquake or any other natural disaster, but rather Derek. Stiles catches a flash of sharp fangs and roughly elbows him in the ribs.

"Put those away!" Stiles demands, ignoring the fact that Derek looks rather affronted at the fact that Stiles had the tenacity to jam his arm into his ribs. Still, Stiles knows it would be unwise of him to eat Stiles here with so many witnesses to watch the massacre.

The teeth reluctantly retreat back into Derek's mouth, and when Stiles looks over to see if Brian's disappeared in the dancing party lights and hopping bodies, he realizes that Derek's following his gaze, looking rather grim.

"That's the man," Derek says, not needing confirmation. "The man you stink of."

Stiles doesn't know if _stink_ is the right word to describe him right now, even if he does smell traitorously of testosterone and hormones. He's about to defend his hygienic honor when Derek speaks first, entire face glum and grim even when the bright lights tickle over his cheeks.

"He's dancing with someone else," Derek points out, a little indignantly. "You could be with someone who treats you better."

"I'm not exactly—I mean, we're not _being_—we're not together," Stiles says, pretty sure that a few heated make outs with a man doesn't make him obligated to ask him to prom.

"So you're still up for grabs?" Derek says, something entirely unidentifiable decorating the undercurrent of his words, like he's hopeful, or perhaps even—

"Woah, wait, rewind," Stiles demands. "Are you jealous?"

Derek tenses, just like in the parking lot when Stiles was about to recommend him yoga centers and soothing bath salts. He says absolutely nothing, but an unspoken aura of triumph lingers nonetheless. Stiles whoops and punches the air like he's three years old at his birthday party. Derek looks like he wants to reach out and touch Stiles, a brush of his thumb over his neck where a red hickey is still fading away, but thinks better of it at the last moment. He puts his hand, poised to reach out and _claim_ Stiles, back onto his lap.

"No," Derek says, too late, and then once more with conviction. "_No_."

"You're really not jealous?"

"No," Derek parrots himself. "I have to go."

Stiles isn't even done celebrating yet that Derek Hale is jealous of _his_ life when Derek is across the club and gone, nothing but a flash of brooding shoulders before he's out of Stiles' sight.

* * *

"My friends and I are going back to Pittsburgh tomorrow," Brian mentions the next day outside of the bar while he sticks a slender cigarette in his mouth and lets the flame from his lighter lick up the tip of the filter until it glows orange. He draws his lips taut around the cigarette in a way that shouldn't be quite so distracting to Stiles as it is. If he told himself five years ago that he would be propped up against a brick wall of a reputable gay bar trying his hardest to keep thoughts of dick sucking at bay, he's pretty sure he wouldn't believe himself.

"Sounds like a long trip back," Stiles says.

"I have friends that won't make a minute of it boring," Brian tells him, sounding both spectacularly exasperated and amused at the same time. He looks over at Stiles and tilts his chin over with his jaw. "Thanks for a good time."

He leans in for a kiss after he lets the smoke billow from the caverns from his mouth and Stiles smoothly backs away, head bumping into the wall.

"_No_," Stiles denies him firmly, pointing accusatorily at the cigarette. "I refuse to smell like an ashtray where people butt out their cigars."

Brian rolls his eyes and takes another drag. "Probably better that way," he concedes. "Don't want anyone to think I'm corrupting a teenager by giving him secondhand smoke."

"Pretty sure you've already done a swell job of corrupting—"

"By the way," Brian shamelessly interrupts. "Tell your friend that we're leaving. And also tell him not to be too happy about it."

"My friend?"

"The one who was sitting next to you at the bar that night and couldn't keep his eyes off of you," Brian says, almost like it's obvious, and then chuckles darkly around his cigarette while the ash tumbles off the tip. "He came up to me later. Pretty much claimed his territory."

"Claimed his _territory_?" Stiles repeats feebly, still trying to comprehend exactly who it was that couldn't keep his eyes off of Stiles while he wasn't accidentally embarrassing himself. "Oh my god, _Derek_. He _claimed his territory_? What exactly is _his territory_?" Stiles takes a moment to overuse air quotes, because all this talk about territory and possession is making him feel like an acre of farmland that a few coyotes peed on to secure as their own.

"You," Brian says simply, sending Stiles a look like he's dim. "You didn't tell me you have a boyfriend that could crush my nuts."

"I don't—I don't have a _boyfriend_," Stiles says firmly. Brian scoffs, and then proceeds to laugh loudly, like he knows best because he's older and wiser. Stiles resists the urge to smack the cigarette from his fingers if only to assert his dominance.

"Does your boyfriend know that?" Brian asks. "Derek, is it?"

"Half the time he just wants to bash my head in, trust me. And I think he even might be a homophobe because he did not look happy when he realized I was hanging out with you—"

_Oh_, Stiles thinks, feeling rather deflated. This is normally the thing Scott would overlook and waltz right over, not Stiles. He likes to believe he's a bit sharper than that, but maybe his ego is worth reevaluating. Suddenly the jealousy makes sense, that Derek's not envious because Stiles is attractive to other men and having a good time while Derek's locked up in a rusty subway car but because he _wants Stiles_, and suddenly the tense shoulders and the awkwardness, it makes so much sense Stiles is actually relieved to have solved one of the enigmas that is Derek Hale.

He thinks about the thing holding him back from letting Brian Sex God Kinney go down on him or slide his angelic hands down his pants to deliver him the first orgasm that Stiles' own hands aren't responsible for, about the nagging voice in his head telling him to _wait wait wait_ like some sort of abstinence devil, and wonders if all of it goes back to Derek, clearly _jealous_ Derek, and Stiles knows that he should be rejoicing because _Stiles is the one_ who brought contributory feelings to the surface of Derek's igloo shield, but instead, he's too busy feeling confused to properly celebrate.

Brian grinds his cigarette against the brick so it sizzles to a crumpled end before he flicks it into the street, looking way too smug for Stiles' liking. He grabs Stiles by the neck and sneaks a kiss when he's too busy thinking about _why didn't he get this sooner_, tongue flicking over Stiles' lips before he pulls back. Stiles spits on the ground and wipes at his lips at the foul taste.

"Thanks for that, I always like my mouth tasting like a heap of ash."

Brian grins, but his face sobers up again quickly. "Seriously, Stiles. Tell your friend I'm gone tomorrow."

* * *

Stiles doesn't see Brian Kinney again that night, or the next day, and if only to lure Derek to him, he takes a shower and scrubs the soap bar over himself so hard he leaves his skin raw and bubbly until no trace of Brian's cologne is left on him. He's not exactly an expert at this lycanthropy business even if he did consult Google multiple times, but he's pretty sure that Derek feeling the need to _claim his territory_ by confronting Brian might have something to do with the fact that he reeks of the man.

He doesn't find Derek himself—he never does, Derek finds _him_ like he's secretly tracking Stiles or keeps hidden cameras in the bushes by his house—but he knows that Derek will come eventually, like the dog you can let loose and trust to come back because you feed it and rub it behind the ears.

Not like Stiles has plans to rub Derek's ears—maybe rub other things—but the analogy works nonetheless. Derek will come to him eventually and Stiles doesn't even need the magical werewolf summoning power of howling at the moon like a lunatic to draw him out of his hole.

Naturally, he comes when Stiles expects it least—right when he's in the middle of sliding into his worn pajama bottoms and trying to feel his arms for any presence of muscle—and he's halfway into bed when he notices that there's a crisp March draft breezing into his room and that his window is mysteriously open and that there's a man standing by his desk.

This time, Stiles does his best not to jump, letting his deer-in-the-headlights stare of shock announce his fear for him. He slumps on the bed and glares at Derek.

"Some people use the front door."

"Some people, maybe," Derek agrees, and leaves it at that because he knows perfectly well that Stiles is aware that Derek is not _some people_. Actually, Stiles is pretty sure that he's not even one hundred percent _people_, more animal than he is actual flesh-and-blood _human_. "You smell clean."

"Yeah," Stiles says, rubbing a hand over his head. "Even though I'm apparently already claimed by some people—wait, forgot, you're not people. You're an android."

Derek furrows his eyebrows and has the decency to appear mildly abashed. "You know about that."

"Yeah, I heard," Stiles nods, and then does what he does best and tries to infuse his trademark Stilinski humor into the situation. "I also heard that you might be interested in doing the bow-chicka-bow-wow with me."

Derek's eyebrows crease further. "You're mine, if that's what you mean."

Stiles feels an odd tingle that has absolutely nothing to do with how surprisingly arousing he finds Derek's possessiveness to be curl up his midriff. He shifts his hips and rearranges himself on the wrinkly sheets.

"Okaaaay, caveman. You mine. I yours."

"You know, and you still let him touch you."

"He's out of the state by now, you should probably know," Stiles says warningly, like he's training a puppy to not chew on furniture or hump the neighbor's leg. As endearing as he finds Derek's bloodlust when it's on his behalf, he's pretty sure a bloody trail from Pittsburgh is not what their relationship needs to spice it up. If this will be a relationship, that is, which Stiles is starting to assume it's been all along.

"I know," Derek says. "Right now you smell like… like you could be anybody's."

He sounds vaguely disappointed, but it's still the saddest that Stiles has ever heard him, like he's resigned himself to a life of watching Stiles run from the arms of men to men and Brian Kinney was just the start of it. Stiles realizes that what he's listening to are Derek's honest to goodness _feelings_ come to the surface for Stiles to feast on and ridicule.

"I never actually let him touch me. In my pants, that is. Never in my pants. Did you know that all fortune cookie fortunes get funnier when you add _in my pants_ to them? _In bed_, too."

"Stiles."

"Right," Stiles says, throwing himself back on track. "I think I was waiting for you." Derek continues to stare at him. "So, you gonna come and get me or what?"

Derek considers him critically for a long, awkward moment. Then he nods wordlessly and next thing Stiles knows, his head's on his pillow and a heavy pair of hips are straddling him and also effectively trapping him onto his mattress. Stiles feels like he should be scared, scared of becoming a midnight snack or grilled for details about what Brian's address back home is or how much contact with his tongue he had, but he only feels protectively caged, like he's safe.

"Woah," Stiles feels the need to say, a slow smile working on his face as he feels Derek's jeans bulge over his own stirring dick. "Not wasting any time, I see?"

"No more men," Derek says while he ducks into the crook of Stiles' neck and roughly sucks and nips over the fading residue of Brian's marks. Stiles doesn't know how the biting commenced so swiftly but it's urging him to roll his chin to the side to expose more of his skin to Derek and nod blissfully along to his commands. "No one _else_ again."

When Derek finally kisses him, it's so different from Brian's filthy tongue and sensual lips that Stiles almost whimpers, because Derek's surprisingly gentle, rubbing his parted lips over Stiles' own and taking every painstaking moment to memorize the taste and feel of Stiles' mouth, pliant under his own. He slots their mouths together and barely leaves Stiles room to come up for air, stubble rubbing in a pleasant burn against Stiles' cheeks when he arches into his kisses. He's incredibly aware of every touch and moment, partly because he's not suffering from a beer buzz and probably also because it's _Derek_, who Stiles trusts for whatever unknown reason with his body intrinsically.

Suddenly, there are way too many clothes, like both of them are overdressed for a party that only requires birthday suits. Stiles pulls his own shirt over his head and tosses it carelessly away where it lands gracefully on his bedside lamp and grins at Derek until he gets with the program, ridding his chest of his shirt and putting his toned muscles on display, and god, how did Stiles never get the insane yearning to touch that chest before?

He gives in to the urge now with absolutely no qualms, arching up and licking over the column of Derek's throat all the way down to his firm stomach until Derek yanks him sharply back up the bed, pins his wrists to the mattress, and proceeds to rock Stiles' world by biting and teasing the pebbled flesh of Stiles' nipples until Stiles is nothing but an incoherent, trembling puddle of hard goo.

It feels incredibly different from how Brian touched him and kissed him, like he can practically feel the possessiveness and the affection in Derek's hands and feels it seeping from his every pore when he nuzzles Stiles' hipbones and licks over his bites to soothe the stings of ardent pain, and unlike how it was with Brian, Stiles boldly grabs Derek's hand, pushes it between their bodies, and plants it firmly on the tent in his pants.

"C'mon, Derek," Stiles demands, hoping Derek will get the message without too many extraneous words, and he does, nodding at him because he knows that he's not lying when he says he wants this, and with that he adopts a wicked Alpha smirk and twists Stiles' pants from his legs before worming his hand in his pants and grasping his erection.

It doesn't feel wrong or uncomfortable, like Stiles should be holding out or buying abstinence pledges or worrying about how his mind will process all this tomorrow when the afterglow is over and he's looking high and low for his underpants. He lets himself go to the ministrations of Derek's hand, lying euphoric on his pillow while his moans and groans urge Derek on, his whimpers turning into poorly muffled yelps of pleasure when Derek wrenches the offending fabric of Stiles' boxers out of the way and licks a thin stripe up Stiles' cock.

"_Fuck_," Stiles says breathlessly, brain already starting to shut off as the heat and passion shoots up and down his body like bolts of relentless lightning. Derek plants a sticky kiss on the head and grins like the devil.

"Maybe later," he growls, biting hard onto Stiles' thigh and making him quiver. "_Mine_."

Stiles finally knows why people talk about sex so much—on the internet, at school, from rooftops—because he doesn't know what he'll have to get his body to do to ever make it feel this awesome again. Derek takes him entirely into the wet heat of his mouth and slips his index finger even lower to brush and tease his puckered entrance, and Stiles is eternally proud of himself for not blowing his load right there, especially when Derek's tongue flicks over the sensitive underside of his cock and takes him in deeper into the heaven that is his mouth.

He keeps feeling seriously proud of himself because Scott probably doesn't even have the slightest idea of exactly how amazing this feeling is, better than winning three rounds of _Halo_ without having to get up to take a piss, and here he is, letting Derek Hale ravish his cock with his seriously talented mouth. His hips stutter forward into the heat and Derek doesn't even skip a beat, gripping Stiles' hips with unforgiving palms and letting him slip deeper, his teeth never scraping too much and his tongue always swirling in just the right way, and Stiles has never appreciated just how much of an _art_ this is before now.

He comes without even a moment's warning to tap Derek frantically on his head to alert him of his impending orgasm, crying out into his pillow while his hips writhe through the waves of his bliss. Derek takes all of it without a single stutter or pause in his movements, pumping his own erection between his legs when he lets go of Stiles' softening dick with a few more kitten licks, and Stiles musters up the last remainders of his energy to slide forward on the sheets and wrap his own fingers around Derek's around the width of his length, hot and heavy in his hand when he picks up Derek's rhythm and licks at the salty sweat gathering in the crook of Derek's neck. Derek pants in his shoulder the whole time, sounding more undone and vulnerable than Stiles has ever heard him, like he's the only one Derek lets wholly see this raw portion of himself that he hasn't let see the light since the fire.

When Derek comes, right on Stiles' thigh with broken whimpers falling onto Stiles' ear, he's pretty sure that there's not a single part of him that still smells of Brian Kinney, not even the hickeys now replaced with Derek's own aggressive tongue work. Their breathing slows together, and then Derek's manhandling Stiles into his arms onto the mattress, nose pushed into his hair and lips pressing lingering kisses onto his temple.

When Derek finally pulls back to stare down at the boy still panting below him in awe at what just transpired between them, Stiles smirks, takes advantage of the silence, and says, "So, should I be calling Chris Hansen now or later?" and is promptly shut up by Derek's mouth once again a moment later.

-_fin_

_A/N_: This story was created because a) Sarah and I were talking about Teen Wolf and Queer as Folk and my brain jumbled them together and accidentally blurted out _Teen As Folk_ and b) I've been thinking about writing this crossover ever since the gay bar scene in _Frenemy._


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